


wisp on the set

by turnontheghostlight



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: (u know how the zombie apocalypse be), Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, M/M, Mentions of Death, Minor Violence, and also it's gay, just. just two boys trying to make it through the end of the world together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-01 04:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17860340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnontheghostlight/pseuds/turnontheghostlight
Summary: Do you have someone to walk home with?Do you want someone? It's getting lateDo you need someone, do you need a new me?Pat finds company at the end of the world, and somehow falls in love along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [whips] i've been working on this slowly but surely for the past week and i've still got a decent chunk to write but i wanted to get the first part out there so uh. here's she
> 
> kudos+comments are always greatly appreciated! hope u enjoy this uhhhhhhhh Mess lmao

Pat is camped out for the evening in the lobby of what he hopes is an abandoned apartment building when he hears something outside, which in and of itself is strange, and also isn’t zombies, which is even stranger.

It’s singing.

It’s not _serious_ singing, to be fair - it sounds like something from the Shrek soundtrack, and gets a little squawky on the high notes. But it’s singing, and Pat hasn’t heard anyone sing in… Jesus Christ, Pat can’t for the life of him remember the last time he heard someone sing.

Something has Pat standing up, his aching joints protesting as he does, and making his way to the entrance to poke his head out into the cooling dusk and take a look around. There’s someone walking almost leisurely down the street, swinging their arms in wide arcs as they vocalize. Pat stares, incredulous.

Finally, his voice returns to him; he clears his throat, yells, “Hey!”

The singer, still too far for Pat to make out their features, stops short for a moment, then makes to turn and run.

“Wait- wait!” Pat stumbles out of the building holding his hands out in what he hopes is a placating gesture. “I’m not- I’m chill, I’m normal!” It’s hard to say why he’s so anxious for this mysterious person not to flee. He figures it’s just been too long since he last talked to another actual human being.

The stranger pauses, and after a long few seconds, starts to approach again. Pat takes a few cautious paces forward to meet them halfway.

Once they get close enough for Pat to really take a look at the stranger, he has to resist the urge to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. By no logic should anyone look like _that_ this long into the apocalypse.

“I’m Patrick,” Pat says, holding out his hand to shake. The stranger takes it with a hand that is calloused at the fingertips.

“Brian,” he provides in a soft, almost lilting voice that sounds nothing like the screechy rendition of _Holding Out for a Hero_ from moments earlier. “Glad to see you’re not a flesh-eating corpse that just happened to be able to shout.”

“You have some major balls making as much noise as you were,” Pat remarks. “You normally do that?”

Brian shrugs scrawny shoulders. “I’ve been hanging around this area for a few days. It’s basically empty.” He gives Pat a quick once-over, quirking an eyebrow. “Except for the lumberjack beatnik poet that has apparently shown up.”

“The _what_.”

The grin Brian gives him is really cute, which is some bullshit. No one should be this cute this far past the end of civilization, seriously. And yet, here is this guy, who Pat has just met, with wide eyes and insensibly soft-looking hair. There’s a voice in Pat’s head that sort of sounds like Simone—as his common sense usually does—that’s chastising him: _now is quite possibly the worst time out of all the times to make decisions based on how attractive you think someone is, Patrick Gill, you absolute buffoon-_

“It’s getting dark—I have a good spot, you wanna set up for the night with me?”

_Jesus Christ, dude._

Brian blinks at him, doesn’t say anything for so long that Pat feels like melting into the concrete in embarrassment and shame. Then, the smile returns, and he says, “Sure! Why not. Lead the way.”

So he does.  
  


Pat watches Brian set his stuff down in silence, averting his gaze when Brian happens to look his way. There’s something about the man that makes Pat’s stomach feel funny. Maybe Pat’s actually been infected at some point and this is all some weird fever dream before he turns gray.

It’s silent save for the rustle of Brian’s pack as he digs out his bedroll and the crackle of the fire. Pat fidgets with his fingers.

“So uh, where are you going?” he asks into the quiet. Brian looks at him, blank-faced. When he doesn’t respond, Pat continues, “I’m headed north. There’s rumors of quarantine zones in Canada, just past the border.”

Brian looks down, his brows furrowed, then back up at Pat. It’s clear he’s hiding something, but Pat doesn’t dare press. Despite his apparent cheerful demeanor, he still seems so skittish, like a weird gangly fawn, that Pat is afraid if he asks too many questions he might just bolt. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Cool, cool.”

More silence. Dear god, Pat is bad at talking to people. He already _was_ bad at it, but the whole zombie apocalypse has really not helped. He’s terribly out of practice.

“Well, uh, I’m knocking out,” he announces, making a show of brushing off his hopelessly dirty clothes as he moves to his bedroll. “Gonna get going once it’s light enough tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Brian agrees. He makes no motion to go to bed, though, as he gazes into the fire, expression unreadable.

“Night,” Pat says, and hopes it doesn’t sound too stilted.

“Night.”

The fire spits orange sparks into the darkness.

  
  


Pat is nervous, for the first day or two, that Brian will turn out to be some sort of murderer who will slit his throat when he least expects it, or a con artist who will run off with all his supplies in the middle of the night, or maybe even both.

This concern, however, perhaps despite Pat’s better judgement, dissipates very soon after they start traveling together.

Brian seems to flounder through his every waking moment. He trips over nothing more than Pat does, which is really saying something, and forgets what he’s talking about mid-sentence often enough for Pat to be concerned about it.

He is absolutely ecstatic to find out that Pat likes video games as much as he does, and very quickly takes to grilling Pat on everything from his favorite Smash character to which Castlevania enemy he thinks is sexiest. They’re all very strange conversations, but Pat doesn’t mind in the least. It’s nice to have someone to talk to at all, never mind someone with shared interests and a seemingly endless amount of wit and niche topics.

Also, Brian saves Pat’s life a week after they meet.

It only happens because Pat was being an idiot, but it happens. They’re rummaging through an abandoned grocery store when Pat gets a little too careless at what just happens to be the worst time.

He flings open an unmarked door in the back of the store without bothering to listen for activity on the other side and is greeted by a snarling, animated rotting corpse falling out of the janitorial closet, taking him completely off-guard.

“ _Pat!_ ” Brian seems to appear out of nowhere. Before he can process what’s going on, Brian shoves Pat out of the way with enough force that he loses his balance and topples to the ground.

Pat’s head hits something hard, and the world goes black for a second and spins for another good ten seconds after that. When he finally refocuses, Brian is standing with his back to him  over a lifeless body, his shoulders heaving as he lets his bloodied tire iron fall from his hands.

“Holy shit, Brian,” Pat gasps, wobbling back onto his feet. “Are you- you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Brian pants. He tugs the sleeves of his jacket down as he turns to face him, wiping a spot of dark blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “I’m all good. You?”

“Other than the killer headache that’s going to besiege me later? Aces. Thanks, by the way.” Pat gestures vaguely towards the dead zombie. “For saving my ass. That was really stupid of me.”

“Yeah, it’s- no problem.” Brian’s eyes dart to the corpse, then back to Pat. “Let’s get out of here?”

Pat stares at him for a long moment, finding nothing, then nods. “Let’s.”

  
  


Brian is strangely distant for the next few days.

They had just started to become more comfortable in a way - Brian talked less, like he wasn’t so nervous that he had to constantly talk to fill the silence, and Pat talked more, not so afraid of saying something stupid and being ridiculed for it.

(To be fair, he still said stupid shit, but so did Brian, so it didn’t really seem to matter as much.)

But for the past few days, Brian has been practically silent, which is weird. He doesn’t respond to Pat’s quips, not even when Pat makes a really dumb joke about Fox McCloud that he was sure would at least get a chortle out of him. They trudge along empty highways wordlessly, set up camp with their only exchanges being about where to make the firepit and what rations they can spare to eat tonight.

Pat wants to say something. He wants to ask what’s wrong - was it something he did? Was it what happened at the grocery store? Does Brian regret joining him? But he’s afraid all over again of saying something stupid, so he fixes his attention on counting his supplies and resolutely keeps his mouth shut.

Brian wakes him up the next morning with bright eyes and a stupid Sonic reference, as if the past three days never happened. Pat’s so relieved that things seem back to normal that it never even crosses his mind to ask what the fuck all that was. He shoots back something about Shadow the Hedgehog that makes Brian snicker, and everything in the world rights itself again.

  
  


Another week. Another empty city and a scavenging trip just barely shy of unfruitful. Pat misses Postmates.

“Holy shit,” Brian says from behind him.

Pat turns, alarm flaring in his chest. “What, what’s wrong?” he asks as he rapidly scans the empty street for any immediate threat. There’s nothing. Brian stands in the middle of the road, looking slack-jawed at one of the long-abandoned stores. “Brian, what the hell.”

Brian blinks out of his trance, grins and points. “It’s a music shop, Pat Gill. _And they still got shit_.”

He’s dashing towards the store and through the open doorway before Pat’s mind can even begin to form the notion of stopping him. Pat sighs exasperatedly and trudges after him.

Brian is darting from shelf to shelf, reveling in the surprising amount of merchandise left on the walls. Though, considering the very little practical use a vinyl provides in a zombie apocalypse, maybe it shouldn’t really be that much of a surprise. It’s clear Brian is going to be a while, so Pat busies himself by studying the dusty covers of albums he can faintly recall his dad listening to when he was a kid.

Pat is examining the tracklist of a Kidz Bop album with mild horror when something akin to a squeal sounds suddenly from the back of the store. Pat nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Oh my god, Pat, there’s a _guitar_ here!!” Brian calls. Pat can tell just from his voice that he is near-vibrating with excitement.

“Yeah?” Pat calls back. “Is it functional?”

“Uhh…” There’s a horrible twanging noise. “Well, it’s way out of tune, but it plays!” Brian shuffles into Pat’s aisle clutching a guitar that looks like it’s seen far better days to his chest, beaming. “She’s coming with us.”

Pat raises an eyebrow. “She?”

“She strikes me as a Gina.” Brian holds the instrument out towards him. “Patrick, meet Gina.”

Pat snorts. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Gina,” he says with a deep bow. Brian’s delighted giggle makes the groan of Pat’s tired spine more than worth it. Shouldering his pack as he comes back up, he adds, “Now let’s get going. I wanna set up camp before it gets dark.”

Still grinning ear to ear, Brian nods, perhaps a tad bit more vigorously than necessary. His tawny hair flops comically into his eyes as he does. Pat’s stomach twists in that weird way again.

  
  
  


It takes Brian an absurd amount of time to tune the guitar. Pat has fully set up for the night and is struggling not to doze off as he stares into the fire.

Finally, Brian snaps his fingers and says, “Okay, I think that’s done. Wanna hear?”

Pat nods absentmindedly, his focus still on the sputtering campfire. Brian clears his throat, sits up straight—a rare occurrence that seems to give him an extra inch of height—and declares, “After a long hiatus, Brian David Gilbert has made his long-anticipated return. Put your hands together for the one, the only, B-D-G!” He gestures for applause, but Pat just rolls his eyes.

 _Where’s the merch table_ , he almost says, but then Brian strums once—the chord is achingly beautiful if only because it’s been so long since Pat has heard something like it—hums softly, and begins to sing. Any sarcastic remark Pat could have possibly made dies in his throat.

Brian’s eyes slip closed as he sings - _croons_ , really. Pat is so entranced by how his jaw moves and his lashes fan out across his cheekbones, his hair falling over his forehead, his fingers moving deftly across the strings, that the lyrics escape him entirely.

Maybe this is what falling in love feels like, after all. The sky is dark gray, the streets are empty, and the undead roam the earth, but in this moment, none of that matters. In this moment, everything falls away except Brian. Brian and his clear, sweet voice, and his soft hair and softer eyes, and the freckles spattered across the bridge of his nose. Brian, who is beautiful.

But his voice wavers then, and his fingers falter on a chord, and he stutters to a halt, cursing, and Pat is brought heaving back up into reality.

“Ah, fuck,” Brian mutters. “It really has been a while.”

“No, that was- _holy shit_ , dude, I didn’t know you could sing like that!” Pat sounds embarrassingly eager to himself, but, well. “What song was that?”

Brian tousles his hair, looking sheepish. “An original. I was in a band before…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Pat’s stomach sinks when he notices how Brian’s expression starts to fall. “A band, huh?” he prompts, as if maybe if he gets him talking about something he won’t have the chance to think about what’s happened to it since then.

Brian nods, eyes going a little misty. “Me and my buddy Jonah - college friend. Dunno if you can really call it a band, but we wrote a lot of songs together, had a great time with it.” He plucks a quiet A, his other hand shifting on the fretboard. “I, uh. We were roommates, before, you know.”

Pat pushes down the urge to make a Vine reference, because it would be _incredibly_ inappropriate. “Yeah.”

Brian strums a wistful chord, hums. “I really missed this. Playing an instrument, singing, all that. I mean, Jonah did most of the guitar playing, but still.”

“He seems like a cool guy,” Pat says evenly. Brian smiles, bittersweet.

“He’s great. He-” Brian’s Adam apple bobs as he swallows heavily, his entire body tensing as he seems to remember something he’d much rather forget. “He _was_ great.”

Pat’s rib cage tightens horribly. He knows what comes next.

“Laura - my sister, she lived with us - she was out of town visiting friends when everything happened. Jonah was out on the streets trying to help as soon as we got the news about the outbreak, before we really realized what was happening, because he’s - he _was_ \- always like that, wanting to help people, but he came back home with a bite, and he-”

Brian breaks off with something that sounds almost like a sob. Pat starts to panic; he’s always been bad at comforting people, much less comforting people about the loss of their close friends due to a contagion that turned humans into undead cannibals. But Brian’s ducking his head, hair falling like a curtain over his face, and the breath he takes is rattling, and Pat just does the first thing he can think of.

He takes two whole steps to reach Brian and envelops him in the tightest hug he’s ever given. Brian stiffens for a heartbeat before he goes boneless in Pat’s arms, stifling sobs into his flannel.

“I’m sorry,” Pat murmurs, and he is. Brian’s grip on his shoulders tightens. “I’m sorry.”

They stay there like that for what feels like ages, Pat staring at the shadows dancing on the far wall as Brian cries quietly on his shoulder.

Pat’s not sure when his life got to this point. There’s a man he met maybe two weeks ago in his embrace in tears while the world falls into shambles around them, and he’s… glad. Not about the state of the world, of course, but he’s glad he’s not alone.

He thinks about his family, the friends he knows he will never see again, and is so, so glad he’s not alone.

Simone’s voice teases him: _you emotionally constipated manchild, you_. Pat’s fingers wind gently into Brian’s hair in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. Brian shifts impossibly closer to him and breathes in deep.

The fire spits orange sparks into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next episode: it gets gayer


	2. Chapter 2

Brian keeps singing.

It hurts like hell to, because it reminds him of Laura and Jonah and everything his life used to be, but he keeps singing anyways, largely because he knows Jonah would be pissed if he found out Brian had stopped for as long as he did. Jonah always insisted Brian sing as often as he could—to keep his vocal chords limber, he would say, and to make himself happy.

Jonah always knew what was good for Brian better than Brian knew what was good for Brian.

But Jonah’s not here anymore, because Brian had had to put a kitchen knife through his forehead.

Instead, Pat whistles along to his melodies as they walk, sheepish when Brian points it out, and hums along in the evenings, rumbling low in his throat. He doesn’t seem to like the sound of his own voice, which is a shame, because Brian does.

He does, however, like to play the guitar, as Brian finds out a criminally long time after he found the thing. After he’s done chiding him for not mentioning it sooner, Brian forces the guitar into Pat’s hands and orders him to play. Pat does just that, laser-focused as his long fingers skim over the fretboard.

It becomes a part of their nightly routine, then: Pat sits on one side of the fire and plays wandering chords while Brian makes up songs about everything from Waluigi lore to the can of beans they’d split for dinner. It always ends with the two of them in stitches, flushed from laughing, and Brian’s whole body warmed from the inside out, like the embers of the fire are coursing through his veins.

Brian’s not sure if he’s imagining things. There seems to be a certain way Pat looks at him, when he thinks Brian doesn’t notice, so intense yet so fleeting. It burns on his skin long after Pat has turned away, makes Brian feel infinitely smaller and impossibly larger at the same time.

But he’s imagining it. He must be. Because Pat is funny, and caring, and really really hot, and Brian is just seeing what he wants to see. That’s all.

Still, Brian keep pretending to not pay attention, so he can see those furtive glances, and they feel so real, but he can’t allow himself to believe they are.

So they’re not. That’s all.  
  
  


Pat finds a gun, as they’re making their way through yet another unremarkable suburb, lodged in a storm drain, six rounds still in the magazine. The origins of the weapon become clear soon after when they come across a scattering of zombie bodies in a nearby yard, leading through the overgrown weeds to a fresher but horribly ravaged corpse that Brian cannot look at for longer than a few seconds before bile rises in his throat and he has to turn away, gagging.

Pat puts a hand on his shoulder, the weight of it reassuring. “C’mon, Bri.”

(He’s been calling him “Bri” sometimes, lately. It’s nice.)

They move on quickly, Pat tucking the handgun into his pack after removing the magazine to store separately. He mentions something about needing to find a holster for it, but it’s without much serious intent. They both know the chances of that happening aren’t worth thinking about. They’ll just have to make do with sacrificing a readily available firearm in exchange for safety, which Brian decides is fine by him. It would be so embarrassing to die after surviving the apocalypse this long because of some bullshit like a misfire.

Pat does still use it occasionally, takes it with him when he does his usual morning patrols, and Brian is glad he does. Especially when it ends up saving Brian’s life.

The whole ordeal unfolds as such: Pat shakes him awake one morning saying something about going to check the area before they leave and also to take a piss, and Brian, still half-asleep, mumbles something incoherent in acknowledgement. Pat smiles fondly - even as groggy as he is, Brian screams internally a little - and exits the cleaned-out CVS they’d set up for the night in.

Brian eventually drags himself upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he vaguely examines a lonely-looking bottle of shampoo on a nearby shelf.

 _Just me and my Pantene_ , he thinks to himself in melody. There’s an idea for tonight’s dumb jingle.

Footsteps inform him of Pat’s return. “Hey, I got today’s song in the works already,” Brian calls without turning around. Strangely, there’s no response. Pat’s gait sounds unfamiliar, a different rhythm, an off pitch, but before Brian can put it together, there’s the cold press of metal at his throat and _okay, that’s definitely not Pat._

“What the fuck,” Brian starts, voice rising, but he cuts off with a panicked wheeze when the blade under his chin presses closer. Whoever’s behind him huffs, their breath unpleasantly warm on his shoulder.

“Put your supplies in your bag, hand it over, and I go on my way,” they say in a voice that would be far less threatening if it weren’t for the knife millimeters away from Brian’s jugular.

“Are you fucking serious,” Brian manages to gasp out, hardly daring to move.

“Yes, I’m fucking serious- you want me to slit your throat, bitch?” The mugger - _Jesus, it’s the apocalypse and Brian’s getting_ mugged - shoves him slightly. A horrible squeak escapes Brian. “I’ll slit your throat, don’t think I won’t.”

Brian’s vision goes dark around the edges. Is he having a panic attack? _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , he thinks. _What do I do, what do I-_

“ _Hands. Off._ ”

_Is that fucking Pat?_

The mugger and Brian both freeze in place. There’s a click, then Pat’s voice - deep and growling and _terrifying_ , it barely sounds like him - again: “Take your fucking hands off of him or I will blast your brains out, right now.”

Slowly, _so_ slowly, the pressure on Brian’s neck decreases, until the knife is gone and the mugger steps away. Brian stays where he is, partly out of fear, and partly because his body has stopped listening to his brain altogether.

“Get lost. Fucking get out of here.” The way Pat’s voice reverberates feels like it makes the hackles Brian doesn’t have raise. He can’t imagine the effect of it actually being pointed at him, and also a gun. That’s important. “ _Get out_.”

After what feels like an eternity, there’s a flurry of footsteps that must be the mugger fleeing, and Brian’s lungs kick back into gear again. He turns around to come face-to-face with Pat, who has an expression Brian’s never seen on him before. His knuckles are white from the grip he has on the gun, his eyes wide behind his glasses, jaw tense. He looks terrified.

“Pat?”

Pat seems to shatter. “Oh my god, Brian,” he all but cries, stumbling the few paces towards him. “That was the worst fucking thing, I almost thought- oh my god, you’re okay, right?”

“The gun- watch the gun,” Brian says quickly. Pat draws back, red-faced, turns the safety on and sets the pistol down on the nearest shelf hastily before fully closing the distance between them. He grabs Brian by the shoulders and looks him up and down, a little frantic.

“You’re alright? He didn’t-?”

“No, I’m fine.” Brian touches a hand gingerly to his throat. “Didn’t even nick me.”

Pat’s entire body relaxes noticeably. “Thank fucking god,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “Otherwise I’d have to go back out there and kill him with my bare hands.”

“My hero,” Brian sighs in a mock-dreamy tone, clasping his hands together. Pat rolls his eyes, but Brian swears there’s a blush in his cheeks. _It’s just adrenaline_ , he tells himself. _That’s all_. “Really, though, thanks.”

“It’s- There wasn’t much else I could do. I don’t know what I’d do if you…” Pat trails off, averting his gaze. “Well, anyways,” he says with a smile, “we’re even now, huh?”

Brian tries not to let the way his gut sinks show on his face, instead plastering a grin on and shrugging his shoulders in what he hopes is a convincing display of nonchalance. “We sure are.”

The scar on his forearm throbs ever so faintly.

  
  


The problem is, the memory of the time he saved Pat’s life - and all its related guilt - won’t leave him.

He’s not sure what exactly about it bothers him the most—the experience itself, its immediate aftermath, or the dishonesty he carries by never telling Pat what happened. In any case, it keeps eating away at him, leaves him lying awake at night staring up at mildewing ceilings, arguing with himself until exhaustion finally lulls him to sleep.

So, when they stop in an electronics store because Pat wants to “go out on a limb” and look for a radio, Brian bites the bullet before guilt overtakes him entirely.

“Hey, Patrick, can I tell you something?”

Pat cocks his head at him for a moment before returning to sifting through the pile of discarded electronics in front of him. “Yeah, shoot.”

Brian worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. The water-stained beige walls of the Best Buy feel like they’re closing in around him. “I, uh. You remember that time about a week after we met, at the Whole Foods?”

“When you saved my ass, yeah. What about it?”

“You know how I was... kind of weird for a couple days after that?”

“Mhm. Is this you explaining?” Pat asks without looking up.

“I guess.” Brian inhales deeply, then rolls his left sleeve up to his elbow. He stares for a long moment at the uneven pink scar tissue on his forearm, in its lopsided oblong shape, with its distinct little indents—the shape of human teeth. Then: “I got bit, back then.”

Pat stops rummaging.

“I thought- I was sure I was gonna go gray, but I didn’t want to tell you, ‘cause I was afraid. I was just gonna walk off a building or something when I felt it starting. But then, I didn’t die.” Brian fights down the voice in his head screaming at him to just shut up and maybe also run away as Pat slowly turns his head to look at him. His gaze finds the bite scar, and Brian’s chest tightens at the way Pat flinches. “Pat, I… It started healing. I don’t know how, or why, why me, but- I think I’m immune.”

Pat draws a breath in with his whole body, and Brian braces himself, unable to look Pat in the eye.

But Pat doesn’t shout at him, or stand up and leave, or any of the horrible, inevitable things Brian was expecting. Instead, he just says, “Damn. Thank you for telling me,” and returns to his search.

“What?” Brian blinks hard a few times. Maybe he’s dreaming, because this doesn’t make sense. “Pat, did you not hear me?”

“No, I did,” Pat responds, sitting back on his heels with a little sigh. “And I said thank you. For telling me. I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Aren’t you, I dunno, mad?”

Pat shrugs. “Honestly? I mean, if you’d told me this back then, I’d be furious.” Brian grimaces, but Pat continues quickly, “But I’m not. Not now. I’m just glad you’re here, and not a zombie.”

“But don’t you think you should be just a _little_ bit angry with me? At all?” Brian feels that familiar monster rearing its head, screaming self-doubt. “Not even that- I almost got myself killed today, and all your shit would have gotten stolen, and then what?”

“Brian,” Pat starts, voice soft.

But Brian keeps talking, too fast for him to stop himself but slow enough for the words to hurt. “It’s just that- I’m such a liability and an idiot and I- I _lied_ to you, about being bitten, Pat, that could have gotten us both killed, I don’t-” Brian cuts himself off, breathless. “Pat, I don’t know why you stay with me.”

Pat’s hand clasps his, gently, like an anchor to the earth, and Brian’s tumbleweed of self-deprecation comes to a screeching halt. “Because you’re funny, and clever, and you’ve saved my life a hundred times over in a hundred little ways whether you want to admit it or not.”

The way Pat is looking at him is not like all those secret glances Brian swore he imagined. It is open, earnest, full of some indescribable warmth that makes Brian want to cry, and for a second, it almost reminds him of Jonah.

But then it doesn’t, because it’s _Pat_ , not Jonah. It’s Pat looking at him—Pat, who is scruffy and imperfect and kind and witty and _gorgeous_ and the only thing in the world keeping Brian from going insane. Pat, who, Brian realizes now, maybe _is_ his whole world.

“I’m staying, Brian.” Pat’s thumb rubs over the back of Brian’s hand, skimming over his knuckles, and something in the air shifts, something in Brian snapping loose.

“I’m in love with you,” he blurts, and it hurts as much as it relieves him to say it. His heart stutters dangerously in his chest, but his lungs feel clear for the first time in a long time. Despite himself, despite everything, he’s smiling dumbly. Pat stares.

“I…” His mouth opens and closes soundlessly a few times. His hand is still closed around Brian’s. “Brian.”

It’s almost funny, how this confession gets more of a reaction out of Pat than the revelation that Brian is immune to the virus that took out most of the world in days.

“I know it’s really dumb,” Brian says, “but I am. In love with you, I mean. Also dumb, but that’s beside the point.”

That prompts a sort of breathy, incredulous laugh from Pat. He ducks his head, runs his free hand through his hair. Brian’s heart positively flutters.

“Pat,” he says again. More to confirm it to himself than anything, he repeats, “I am fully, absolutely in love with you. Hoooooly shit.”

Pat’s shoulders shake, and Brian is almost scared for a second before he realizes Pat is laughing. “Brian, stop, I’m trying to- I’m trying to formulate a romantic response to this, you’re ruining it.”

Warmth surges through Brian. “Pat, I’m in love with you. Pat. _Pat_.” He lets his voice pitch up into a whine, jostles Pat a little. “Patrick Gill, please acknowledge me-”

“God _dammit_ Brian,” Pat sighs in utter exasperation, but he’s smiling, so open and soft. “You’re so…”

“Yeah?”

Pat reaches a hand to cup Brian’s cheek; Brian leans into it instinctively. Pat exhales quietly, an intimate, adoring little sound. “You’re everything. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Brian feels like he might just melt. He’s at an utter loss for words, suddenly, which should be shameful for someone with a degree in creative writing, but it’s not his fault Pat is looking at him like he hung the moon and it’s entirely too distracting.

So instead, he surges forward and kisses him. It’s a little clumsy, and he catches the corner of Pat’s mouth before finding his lips proper, but Pat leans into it eagerly, his other hand coming up to frame the other side of Brian’s face so perfectly.

“I love you,” Pat says when they break apart. “Jesus Christ, man, I- I love you.”

“That’s good to know,” Brian replies, which is really dumb, but he’s pretty sure he’s just gone hopelessly silly. Kissing Pat Gill will do that to a man.

Pat’s grasp skims down over his shoulders, his arms, stops to hover over the scar. Brian holds back a shiver as Pat runs feather-light fingertips over the uneven skin, like Brian’s fragile.

“I really am glad you’re here,” Pat murmurs. “I don’t know how I ever managed without you.”

Brian doesn’t respond to that, doesn’t know how to, so he just kisses him again, hoping that somehow Pat will get all the words he wants to say from his lips. _You’re wonderful. You’re so important to me. I can’t live without you._

Maybe it’s impractical, and maybe they’re only the way they are - inches apart and sharing warmth, breath mingling - because of circumstances, and maybe if things were different they never would have met, or never would have fallen in love, but it doesn’t matter.

Brian holds Pat’s face in his hands, grins when their noses bump together, and decides that none of that matters. Not when Pat’s eyes crinkle up as he smiles and his hands rest at Brian’s waist like they’re meant to be there.

This moment, Brian decides, is all that matters. This moment, as Brian loses himself in Patrick, totally fine with never coming back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like, yeah, man


End file.
